touching things is a part of life
by p.s.lethologica
Summary: His chest felt warm, and he tried to remember if that's what an anxiety attack felt like. But then it felt wet, and when he looked up, the scowling face he was met with told him that somebody else's chest was hot and wet too, and the owner of that chest wasn't best please, to put it lightly.


_**~ * and all those things i didn't say, wrecking balls inside my brain * ~**_

He was an awkward skeleton of a child, just waiting to hit puberty, so his lanky body would fill out; he expected it would happen sometime soon, since he was 13, and that's the age his dad proclaimed to be the "you're now a man" phase. Back in Canada, every one of his friends, and boy, did he have a lot of them, would go through this phase together, with or without him. But knowing that, the question of what would happen to _him_ arose. What would _he_ do without _them_? It wasn't like the other times when he had moved; he wasn't a mere two blocks away from the people he had grown up with. He was hundreds of miles away, in a completely new country.

He had often thought he would've preferred to have moved to a non-English country; if he didn't know the language, no one would try and speak to him. No one in his hometown would've guessed it, but Beck Oliver was inherently shy. Unless he was with his friends, he would speak only when spoken to. Family dinners were a living nightmare, but his quietness was taken for politeness at the dinner table, and went unnoticed by everyone. Besides, he liked to keep his worries unspoken, because men don't need shoulders to cry on. He could get through this on his own, and show his parents what a mature man he was becoming. As long as he went for walks with his dad, or did baking with his mum, they would always see him as their bubbly, chatty, strapping young lad, and that was good enough for him.

If he wanted to be a famous actor, he'd have to get used to putting himself in uncomfortable situations. Moving to a new house would be a doddle for Beck, the super-cool, stereotypical, surfer dude, whom he had decided he would be, at least until the neighbours stopped coming round. He would be charming and charismatic, and would engage in interesting, witty conversations, and make his parents proud to call him their son. But the neighbours didn't stop coming. Every night, for two weeks, a woman from their street would come for a chat, with an assortment of cakes and other sweet treats, filling the house with the sweet smell of freshly baked goods; the woman was an old friend of his mum's, from King's College, in London. She would come over, sometimes with her disgruntled husband, sometimes with a pair of children who were around his age (Beck later found out that there were three years between the two - Cat, who was Bear's younger sister, was his age and would be in his grade at school). The strange woman's hair was much more wild than his mother's, with black ringlets framing her soft, heart-shaped face. These features were reflected in her daughter, whose hair fell into the same ringlets, but hers were a dark chestnut colour, which Beck realised matched her father's. The boy, despite his dirty blond hair, was the spitting image of his father. Beck noticed that the boy would only speak when his father didn't accompany the family, and would otherwise look at his feet the entire time. The name Bear seemed like some kind of cruel irony, for the boy reminded him of some kind of timid creature, like a hedgehog, or a badger, rather than a fierce bear, with gnashing teeth. Nonetheless, the boy was called Bear, and the girl, Cat. Cat seemed to suit the girl. She was assertive to what went on around her, but remained looking cute.

After one week and three days, he discovered that Cat would be starting her second year at the same performing arts school that he was due to start in six weeks, whereas Bear was being sent to a military school in Switzerland; the strange man seemed indifferent about the situation, but when the subject was brought up, dismay was painted onto the woman's face. When she started to snivel, Beck found out that her name was Pippa, after her husband told her to stop the crocodile tears. He decided he didn't like the strange man very much, but she seemed nice enough and had a kind face.

* * *

Before long, he was setting his alarm to wake up bright and early, ready for his first day at Hollywood Arts. That night, Pippa didn't come round, and the sound of a man's shouts could be heard from down the street. Beck had never really liked shouting. His parents rarely fought, and when they did, their voices barely raised more than a few decibels; he didn't realise how lucky he was.

Just as he buttoned up his smartest flannel shirt, and readjusted his coat collar (he had a fascination for Belstaff Milford coats because he loved upturning the collar, just like Sherlock Holmes), he heard Cat's knocking at the door. He raced down, almost falling over his own feet, ripping the door wide open. He was taken aback, when he saw that the girl stood at the door had bright red hair.

"Hi!" Cat cried, her voice startling energetic. Beck was used to Cat's animated personality, but that morning she seemed turbo-charged; in the 10 seconds since he had opened the door, she had run around him at least three times, her curly hair flying in all directions. "Aren't you just so excited to start school?!"

"Apparently not as excited as you," he laughed, before promptly having the wind knocked out of him by one of Cat's 'cat' hugs (she said it would be wrong to call them bear hugs, because she was Cat, not Bear). He then followed her out to her mom's car, his stomach tying itself in knots, his hands knotting the hem of his flannel shirt. However, once he was in the car, seatbelt on, he began to relax; maybe it was the subtle smell of sugar cookies, or the smile on Pippa's face, but he felt more at ease.

The feeling of dread returned as the car pulled into the school's parking lot. Seeing the mass of shiny cars, and the greater mass of students, made his eyes roll back in his head, as if in retreat, and it was all he could do to stay conscious and upright. Just the thought of approaching anyone to ask where his lessons would be made him feel like he was going to gag; if he didn't have Cat next to him, he was sure he would just collapse in a messy heap of disaster.

But, since it was his first day, Cat escorted him to the principal's office, and then scarpered off, in her merry little way, to her lesson, leaving him alone with Principal Eikner. He sat at the chair across from Eikner's desk, quite literally quaking in his boots - newly-polished, black Dr. Martens.

"So, I believe you to be Beck Oliver, if I'm not mistaken?"

Beck, instead of giving a dignified response, or even nodding, just blinked at him, like a rabbit caught in headlights.

"Am I mistaken?"

Beck managed to shake his head, as he began to fiddle with a loose thread on his checkered shirt. He noticed the way his fingers trembled, as he did so, wishing his mind and body would just stop showing him up in front of his new principal. It was bad enough that he couldn't muster up the courage to speak, let alone refusing to make eye contact with the man. He cursed himself, wanting to get on the next plane back to Canada. Not that he would be able to ask for a ticket. Every English word he knew had diffused into the air around him, as he helplessly tried to grasp at them. Not literally, of course, as he was sure not even an eccentric teacher, at this new school of his, would find his behaviour less than concerning.

"If you're wanting to make it at this school, you're going to have to speak up, boy."

"Yes, Sir. S...sorry, Sir."

"Now, you've flown in from Canada, is that right?"

Beck nodded, biting his already-mauled lip, bile beginning to rise in his throat.

"You're not French Canadian are you? Can you understand me?"

"No and yes."

"You can't understand me?"

"No, I'm not French Canadian. Yes, I can understand you," he corrected himself, as his gnawed nails dug into his palm. The blood that rose to the surface of his hand was no match for the blood rushing to his face, however, as he felt his cheeks burn what he was sure was a bright shade of crimson, or perhaps, lava.

"Very well, I'll just go right ahead and give you your timetable."

Beck graciously took his timetable, and raced out of the officer, knocking into a flash of black clothes and stripy hair on his way. His chest felt warm, and he tried to remember if that's what an anxiety attack felt like. But then it felt wet, and when he looked up, the scowling face told him that somebody else's chest was hot and wet too, and the owner of that chest wasn't best please, to put it lightly.

"You moron, you spilled my coffee all over me!"

"At least you're wearing black," he stuttered, as his heart jumped out of his chest; he could hear the _thump, thump, thump_ , about as loud as a thousand brass bands. Ah, there it was: the oncoming anxiety attack.

"You are gonna pay!" the girl screeched, throwing the remains of her coffee onto his boots, the brown liquid staining their shine.

He tried to reach for his wallet, to give her the money for five cups of coffee, by way of compensation. He tried to utter the sincerest of apologies. He tried to just fucking breathe. But it was no use. He was gone. Even the scowling, coffee-stained girl looked at a loss of what to do. This new boy was stood, or now sat, in the corridor, his hitched breath heaving in and out of his convulsing body.

"Look, new boy, I don't know you and you don't know me, but just look at me," she ordered, but her tone was gentler than Beck had anticipated it could possibly be, and her scowl had been replaced with concern. "Look into my eyes, stare deep into my soul," she chuckled, warily placing her hand on his jaw. When he finally made eye contact with her, she took his hand in her other one, and placed it over his chest. "When you feel how fast your heart is going, you're going to want to panic. Don't. Focus on slowing it down."

He did as she said, taking the deepest breaths he could, and exhaling for as long as he could, until, finally, the numbness in his limbs faded and feeling began to return to his arms, legs and feet. But when he tried to stand, that feeling became pins and needles, and the coffee-stained girl gently pushed him back down.

"You owe me a coffee and I demand compensation by the end of the week. Toodles," she smirked, walking to Eikener's office, leaving Beck sat in the corridor, scrambling for his timetable; at some point, it had slid a few yards away from him. Now all he needed to do was find his class. And, probably, not have another meltdown. It should be a piece of cake.

* * *

 ** _*author's note*_**

 ** _Merry Christmas folks! hope you all got what you wanted, and if you don't celebrate Christmas, i hope you have a great day anyway :) take this as my Christmas gift to you. i wanted to write a story from Beck's perspective, as i rarely see fanfics that delve into his mind; i hope you like the way i portrayed him. i also wanted to try and write about the clash between Beck's calm persona and his timidness. in true writing style, i tried to associate my own (limited) experiences with anxiety attacks but i don't know if i experience them any differently than others, so if you feel i didn't do it right or if i offended you in any way, please know that was not my intention. i tried my best. as always, rate and review (because it's Christmassss), let me know what you would like to see. and happy holidays! if Christmas isn't your thing, then it's only one week until this shitty year is over, so hang in there :)_**

 ** _peace out,_**

 ** _Egan x_**


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